


Nowhere to Stand; Nowhere to Hide

by RecallThePet



Series: Dungeons and Daggers [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Help, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, Memories, Not a journal this time, Other, Self-Harm, Title from a Mumford & Sons Song, Zylas needs a hug, read with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecallThePet/pseuds/RecallThePet
Summary: Press a broken glass together. Hold it too tight and it'll shatter and stab your hands. Don't hold it tight enough, and it'll scatter to the winds.To Zylas, it feels like his world is doing both.
Relationships: Veris Khalin/Desdemona Siannodel, Zylas Doraith/Desdemona Siannodel
Series: Dungeons and Daggers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670731





	Nowhere to Stand; Nowhere to Hide

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Long time no write! This was a random spur of the moment bit of inspiration that takes place after some crazy stuff in the campaign. I won't reveal too much though. Without further ado, enjoy my boy's suffering!

The first thing he does after the warped door to his room shuts is fall to his knees.

One hand flies to the floor to slow his fall, but he’s already crumbled and all he succeeds in doing is filling his palm with splinters from the uneven surface of the wood beneath him. He lifts his other hand to his face, sucking back a gasp for air between his fingers as hot tears slip down his face. He can’t do this. He  _ can’t _ . The others are just down the hall, just down the stairs, drinking away their own traumas or trying to sleep. But here he is, on his knees crying like a flimsy damsel while other people have it worse.

If he had the clarity of mind, he would’ve laughed at the blatant weakness he was showing. There’s prying eyes everywhere, after all, and all he’s doing is giving them more ammunition against him. More ways to blackmail him and keep him bound in his contract of servitude to the King.

A tingling overcomes him like liquid static pouring into his skin. He shudders against it. Slams his forehead into the floor and squeezes his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to block out the sensation and what it heralds. Pain blooms and shoots through his head, coiling around his left eye but it can’t stop that godsforsaken buzzing.

Make that  _ two  _ contracts. One to the King, and one to the thing that’s clouding his senses.

A sob wrenches out of his chest only to get lost between the lines of his fingerprints, pressing hard into his mouth and nose. The tingling—originally just an annoying but slow climb—reaches a fever pitch. The urge to claw away his own skin and rip out whatever is crawling in his muscles overwhelms him. His hands tangle in his white hair and  _ pull _ . He rears back and slams his head into the floor again. The pain bites through—finally _ , finally! _ —and he stills.

One moment.

Two moments.

A heaving sob. A stream of blood, sliding down his face and threatening to stain his disgustingly expensive robes.

The tingling is gone. In its place is pain but pain is something he knows well. At least it’s something he can bear. He stays face down for who knows how long, just crying behind his hands. Blood and tears and snot stain his dark face but he can’t bring himself to care anymore. If his mother was here she’d pull him up and into her arms. She’d hold him until he  _ could _ care. If his father was here, he’d lift him to his knees and just talk. About old stories from before his time as a farmer, and stories of when his dear little son would take beads and rocks and make necklaces for his mother and bracelets for his father. He’d smile down at him and say that he’d kept every single one in a box under his bed.

If his  _ Amil _ was here, she’d place a hand on his back, light as a feather, and let him cry. Once he’d gotten it out of his system, she’d pull him up to sit on the bed and hand him some cup of tea made with herbs from her garden with a smile full of warmth and understanding. If her son, his best friend and first love, was here he never would’ve hit the ground in the first place. Strong arms would have caught him the second his knees buckled, and he would’ve broken knowing the pieces were being held together by one of the few people he ever trusted. 

If the last person he truly trusted was here, he wouldn’t be crying at all. Instead he might be lying in bed beside her, kissing her shoulder and pressing up behind her. Or maybe breathlessly crying her name into the heated air trapped between their lips. Or maybe sitting cross legged in front of her, reminiscing about all the times they got into trouble, or just barely scraped their way out of it. But instead, he is completely, utterly alone. His family now strangers, his loves long since buried.

His ragged breaths nearly drown out quiet knocking on the warped wooden door separating him from the rest of the world. Ice freezes his blood to slush as a voice filters into his ears.

“Zylas? Zylas are you alright? I heard a thud.”

He sits back on his feet. Pulls his hand from his mouth. Rust and ash flake from his lips as he speaks. He swears he can taste it like he has before, but he swallows against the memories.

“I’m alright Ral, I just fell off the bed is all. Bugs can be pretty scary when they fly at your face, you know?”

The voice on the other side of the door laughs. “I know that alright!” Knuckles rap at the door once more, playfully this time. “Well, if you’re fine I’m gonna head to bed. See you tomorrow Zy!”

He calls a halfhearted  _ ‘Goodnight Ral, see you tomorrow.’ _ to the heavy footsteps already retreating from the door. Once he hears the door down the hall shut, he decides it's safe to move. Unsteady legs carry him to the wash basin in the corner of the room and tired eyes take in his own reflection in the clouded, dirty mirror.

Splinters clings to the bloody gash in his forehead and the sticky blood glues his hair to it as well. Deep bags mar his green eyes making them stand out even more intensely than they normally would and despite his more recent life as the King’s lap dog, his face is gaunt and ashen. He bites his lip and begins the process of pulling each bit of wood out of his hand and face.  _ Pick… Pick… Pick…  _ Peeling back the skin and digging the splinters out with his nails is painful, but somehow.... Soothing. The easy, repetitive motion lulls him into a nearly meditative state, and he finds his mind emptying. His breathing mellows from the pained gasping of before, only hitching as he plucks out the wood like a farmer would an errant feather stuck to his clothing.

He only startles out of this state when he goes to reach for another splinter and finds only raw skin. Sighing, he washes the blood from his hands and forehead—now seeing that the gash was much smaller than he would’ve thought, it’s just a thin cut—with the corner of his old cloak and the water in the basin that he hopes is fresh.

He balls the cloak up and tosses it onto the bed and kicks off his boots with another sigh. He buries his face into the ratty green fabric and lets his mind wander. Well, it doesn’t exactly  _ wander  _ per se, since he knows exactly to what memory it slips.

_ His face buried in the silk fabric of her stolen nightdress, peppering small kisses along her chest to hear her laugh and feel her heart jump under his lips when they trail just a bit too low to be entirely chaste. Her fingers carding through his hair, tugging gently when he gets too bold. His hands running over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, just to feel her. She sighs and quietly tries to pull him up. He goes easily, giving in to lazy kisses that leave them both clinging to each other and giggling like the children they are. “I love you, Veris.” She murmurs against his lips. _

He doesn’t notice when the memory becomes trance, and when trance becomes sleep. He won’t realize that he’s dreaming until he wakes up the next morning, and he reaches across the bed to hold someone he’ll never hold again. And when he does realize, he’ll bite the cloak and cry again.


End file.
